A Very Private Murder Read online

  A Very Private Murder

  STUART PAWSON

  To Doreen

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  About the Author

  By Stuart Pawson

  Copyright

  Many thanks to the following for their unflagging assistance, advice and encouragement: John Crawford, Dave Mason, Dennis Marshall, Clive Kingswood, John Mills, Hazel Mills and, as always, Teresa Chris.

  PROLOGUE

  The horse could smell their ill intentions. Three hundred years of inbreeding had produced a neurotic, nervous wreck of an animal that was good for only one thing: it could run like the wind. White-eyed, head swinging and teeth snapping, it strained and twisted to reach the hand gripping its halter.

  ‘Hold him steady,’ the older of the two men urged.

  ‘I can’t,’ the other protested as the horse, ears flat against its head, pulled away from him, almost jerking him over the half-door of the stable. He dropped the flashlight he was holding and took a two-handed grip on the animal’s leather halter strap, flinching as teeth clashed millimetres from his wrists and spittle sprayed his face.

  ‘Easy, boy, easy.’ The older man’s voice had calmed a hundred similar animals, but tonight the words were edged in fear and came up from his throat like a corncrake’s call. He was a dwarf of a man, small and bent but with shoulders like a weightlifter’s, topping out a body twisted by years of hard work. He was wearing overalls and wellington boots, and his hands and face were the colour of the saddles that he’d spent his lifetime polishing, fitting and adjusting and, years earlier, sitting astride. ‘Easy, boy. Good boy. There’s a good fellow.’ He slowly raised a hand and gently rubbed the horse’s nose, marvelling, as he always did, at its softness. The horse made a snuffling sound and the ones in the stables on either side snorted and their hooves clattered on concrete.

  ‘Now,’ the other man whispered when everything was quiet. ‘Just do it.’ He was dressed in a sports jacket and cavalry twill trousers that marked him down as a countryman, and his tan didn’t extend beyond his shirt cuffs and fastened collar. He could easily have passed as an auctioneer at a cattle market.

  The older man lowered his hand from the horse’s muzzle and slowly bent down without removing his gaze from the animal. He groped on the ground for a second until he felt the cold metal of the humane killer he’d laid there in preparation, and his fingers closed around the grip. It was an Entwistle heavy-duty horse killer, loaded with a single .32 calibre soft-nosed bullet and fitted with a silencer, as required by Jockey Club rules. He laid his trigger finger alongside the barrel and slowly raised himself upright.

  The horse was edgy again, flaring its nostrils, but soon settled as the older man crooned his false reassurances. He lifted the heavy gun and placed the end of the barrel against the horse’s head, but the angle was wrong. He wasn’t tall enough. He stretched upwards and lifted the gun as high as he could. Horses have tiny brains, and a brain shot was essential.

  ‘Do it!’ the younger man urged. ‘Pull the trigger.’

  ‘I … I can’t,’ the older man protested.

  ‘You’re lined up. For God’s sake do it.’

  The horse was called Peccadillo and was the finest-looking animal he’d ever worked with. His hands were shaking, partly from the weight of the gun, more from nerves, but mostly from the sense of betrayal he felt. ‘I can’t do it, meister. I just can’t.’

  ‘Jesus friggin’ Christ!’ the younger man cursed. ‘This is a fine time to back out. You know what this means, don’t you? We’ll never be able to run him.’

  ‘I’m not backing out,’ the older man protested. ‘It’s just that … just that … I can’t do it. I can’t pull the trigger.’

  ‘But you’ll hold him while I do it? Is that what you mean? You’re still in?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m still in.’

  ‘OK. So give me the gun.’

  The horse pulled away as they argued, but the older man coaxed him back and the two men swapped roles. In a couple of minutes Peccadillo was settled again and the younger man raised the killer. He placed the muzzle between its eyes, at the top of the white stripe that ran down its face, and raised the back of the gun.

  ‘How’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘Perfect,’ he was told.

  The crack of the gun was hardly more than the snapping of a dried branch, but the effect was devastating. Peccadillo’s body was shocked rigid for a moment, then his head fell and his legs collapsed under him, front ones an instant before the rear. In the neighbouring stables horses whinnied and their hooves rattled on walls and feed boxes as they kicked out. The older man unbolted the stall’s lower door and pulled it open so they could survey the results of their crime.

  ‘Shine the light,’ the younger man ordered. The horse’s eyes were wide open and blood was bubbling from the hole in his head.

  ‘Where are his legs?’

  ‘Jesus, he’s fallen on them. They’re under him.’

  ‘We need a leg.’

  The two men entered the stable and tried pushing the dead weight of the horse to one side. It didn’t move. The older man knelt down and groped under the front of the horse. ‘I can feel a shoe,’ he said. ‘Help me with it.’

  The younger man curled his lip in distaste as he knelt alongside his partner in crime. Together, they felt the horse’s left front leg and managed to pull it free from under the steaming but inert body.

  ‘That’ll do,’ the older man said. ‘Let me get the crowbar.’ A moment later he was telling the younger man to pull the leg as hard as he could.

  ‘One blow,’ he was told. ‘You only get one blow.’

  ‘I know. Are you ready?’

  ‘Ready.’

  The crowbar sliced through the air and smashed into the dead animal’s cannon bone, shattering it in two.

  ‘’Tis done,’ he said, wiping sweat and blood from his forehead.

  ‘Yeah, well done.’

  Both men were panting with exertion. They looked for a moment at the scene, horrified by the enormity of their deeds, until the younger man said: ‘Now, you let the other horses out, then go home and put your pyjamas on. I’ll start the fire and talk to you again after you ring me. OK?’

  ‘Right, meister. It’s been a good night’s work.’

  ‘We’ve hardly started,’ he was told.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Like all self-made men, Arthur George Threadneedle worshipped his Maker. He flexed his face muscles and watched approvingly as the reflection staring back at him bared its teeth and arched its eyebrows. Tilting his head backwards to catch the light from the mirror of his dressing table he applied the nasal hair trimmer to his left nostril and heard the faint hum of the instrument turn to a buzz and rattle as the blades dealt with the bushy growth that had accumulated since its last application, nearly a week ago.

  Four suits were laid out on the bed, chosen – suggested – by his wife as being suitable for the occasion. Each one was blue, two-button, single-breasted, with slight variations of lapel design, in vary
ing weights of cloth. As he would be indoors he chose the lightweight Pierre Balmain, which had the added advantage of an extra security button at the top of the zip fly. Nothing could be left to chance today, and he lived in mortal dread of his zipper failing at an inappropriate moment. Today, he reminded himself, was the day of his ascension, his incarnation, his entry into Jerusalem. OK, so he wasn’t sure of the expression, but today he would put the town of Heckley ‘on the map’, as he liked to say, and in doing so make his own modest space in history. He poured Karl Lagerfeld cologne into the palm of his hand and dabbed it on his cheeks, blinking as the astringency stung his eyes. Today was the day that he, Arthur George Threadneedle, would leave behind the jokey bonds of small-town local government and join the Establishment.

  Ghislaine Curzon breakfasted in her hotel room on fruit and green tea and waited for the call to say her car had arrived. She was bemused rather than nervous, although she’d never opened a shopping mall-stroke-conference centre before. It was something she may have to get used to, as widely accepted but still unofficial girlfriend to one of the royal princes, and the people’s favourite – in Yorkshire if nowhere else – to be a future queen of England.

  She knew Arthur Threadneedle as an acquaintance of her father from his horse racing days, and that he was now a bigwig in East Pennine. He’d contacted Ghislaine’s father and suggested that Curzon Centre would be a good name for the new, high-profile development he was involved with on the outskirts of Heckley. If Ghislaine could possibly come and cut the ribbon that would be the icing on the cake.

  ‘He’s a crook,’ Mr Curzon had told his daughter, ‘and I’d normally advise you to stay well clear of him, but it might be fun and you’ll get your picture in Yorkshire Life.’

  Ghislaine was five feet ten tall, with a natural grace that eclipsed anything seen on a catwalk. She had dark curly hair, contrasting with the bland, straight-haired blonde clones that stared at the world from every teen magazine, tabloid and TV screen. When she met the prince she was working in northern Kenya, at a field hospital set up to cater for the refugees flooding across the border. She was gaining work experience the tough way, before a postgraduate year studying medicine at St Andrew’s University.

  The prince was on a whistle-stop tour of East Africa and never stood a chance. The staff and walking wounded lined up to meet him as he crouched and ran from the helicopter that brought him, and Ghislaine picked up the little boy who’d lost a leg to a landmine and joined the end of the queue. The sun was on her face and she had to screw her eyes to see the prince’s features as he approached. When he was opposite her, in her white coat, stethoscope sticking out of the pocket, looking ridiculously young to be a doctor, he was momentarily lost for words.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘My name’s Ghislaine Curzon, but everybody calls me Grizzly.’ Her wide mouth was set in a smile and the sun had brought out the spray of childhood freckles that stretched across her nose and cheeks. He never stood a chance at all.

  Arthur George Threadneedle had a small dilemma. Normally he would wear his mayoral chain of office, but he wondered if it would be more appropriate if he left it at home today. Miss Curzon was the main attraction, and he didn’t want to do anything to detract from her presence. He wouldn’t wear the chain, he decided. It was her day and he wanted it to be perfect. He telephoned for his car to take him to the Curzon Centre and studied the sky. The clouds were high and the chances of rain looked slight, confirming what the TV weathergirl had said. Mrs Threadneedle appeared and asked how she looked.

  ‘Fine, you look fine,’ he replied with barely a glance. She was wearing one of her hats, he noticed. Being mayoress had truly gone to her head.

  The doorbell rang. ‘That’s the car,’ Threadneedle said. ‘Let’s go.’ He cast a glance back at the chain of office draped over the back of the settee, then turned and picked it up. He was the mayor, after all, and the people deserved to be able to see what they were getting for their money. He adjusted it in the hall mirror and followed his wife to where the chauffeur-cum-town macebearer was holding open the Rover’s rear door.

  Fifteen minutes later they were in the mall, finding their way through the crowds who were hoping for a glance of the girl who could one day quite easily become their queen. They visited the central atrium, where the unveiling ceremony would take place, and Threadneedle checked that the area in front of the plaque was roped off and the curtains hiding it were intact. He’d spent much of the previous evening opening and closing them until they moved with silky precision.

  ‘Everything fine, John?’ he asked the chief of security who stood with five other employees, wearing their dark uniforms and LAPD-style caps, looking like the chorus line from a Midwestern production of Pirates of Penzance.

  ‘AOK, Mr Threadneedle,’ came the reply. ‘It’s been under constant surveillance and is just as we left it last night.’

  The mall had been doing business for a week, but this Monday was the official opening. Its building had not gone without objections from several quarters, including the RSPB, several local protest groups with silly acronyms, the Ramblers’ Association and Friends of the Earth. A sizeable patch of moorland had been sacrificed for the buildings and car parks, and several miles of footpath lost or rerouted. There’d been no threats of disobedience – civil or otherwise – but a large police presence was on show and an even larger one was posing as the shopping public.

  Threadneedle checked the CCTV monitors in the basement and received another favourable report, so he made his way through the throng to the Green Room, where all the dignitaries would meet. Mrs Threadneedle, who was only five feet tall, fought gallantly to keep up with him, wondering if the wide-brimmed hat had been such a good idea. As he walked, Threadneedle went through the wording on the stone plaque that he himself had composed, wondering if it could have been improved upon, if he ought to have called himself Councillor Threadneedle. It said:

  Opened by

  Miss Ghislaine Curzon

  In the presence of

  A.G. Threadneedle, Mayor of Heckley

  Architect: W.H. Jones & Partners

  14th May 2007

  The Green Room was crowded although Miss Curzon’s party had not arrived. The chief constable and the local MP, plus wives and management, were already in there, sipping sherry and waiting. She was understood to be bringing along her younger sister for moral support and would be accompanied by the Lord Lieutenant of the county and two police bodyguards. Officially she wasn’t authorised to have a royal bodyguard, but when any high-profile dignitary was in a police force’s area it was the custom to pass on notification and a weather eye would be kept on them.

  She arrived without her sister ten minutes later, via the back door and was smuggled into the Green Room without the public realising. Everybody stood to greet her, mouthfuls of Pringles were swallowed, hands discreetly wiped and proffered, smiles fixed.

  Ghislaine Curzon conquered the room with a glance. She was wearing an ivory suit in Shantung silk, with recklessly high stilettos, and carried a small purse the same shade of green as the shoes. No jewellery, gloves or hat and hardly any make-up. Every man in the room fell in love with her with varying degrees of lust, and all the women gave envious sighs.

  Arthur George Threadneedle conferred with the Lord Lieutenant and they counted down the last few minutes. The Lord Lieutenant was in full dress uniform, medals and all, and Threadneedle was glad he’d taken the decision to don his chain of office. He’d had a short chat with Miss Curzon, offered her a sherry (declined), enquired about the health of her father (he was fine, thank you) and left her talking to the MP, happy that she knew who he was without monopolising her company. He caught the eye of his macebearer-cum-chauffeur and indicated that they’d leave in two minutes.

  On the stroke of eleven the macebearer hammered the carpeted floor of the Green Room three times with the mayor of Heckley’s symbol of authority and everybody fell silent. Threadneedle positioned himse
lf alongside their guest of honour and glanced round to see if his wife was still with him. He saw her gulping down a schooner of Amontillado, hat already askew, and wondered if he’d done the right thing bringing her along. The macebearer opened the door and led the phalanx of dignitaries out into the airy vaults of the mall and through the pressing crowd who’d come to see this beautiful young woman whom the tabloids had already elevated to royal status and whom one day they would probably destroy. The people looked at her as she walked amongst them and any cynicism they may have harboured was shed like wool off a moulting sheep. Cameras flashed and Ghislaine stopped for a few seconds while a flustered woman came to grips with her mobile phone camera. The woman mumbled a thank you and turned away, hoping she’d pressed the right buttons. A little girl offered a bunch of freesias and Ghislaine crouched down to speak to her.

  ‘Where’s Kevin?’ a youth asked as she pressed forward, trying to keep moving without being too impolite.

  She smiled back at him and said: ‘He couldn’t make it,’ over her shoulder, glad of the banter with someone nearer her own age. Kevin was her pet name for the prince, as revealed in one of the celebrity magazines.

  It took fifteen minutes to walk the thirty yards to the podium, but nobody minded. Threadneedle watched her work the crowd, glowing with pride. He was keeping a low profile, staying out of the limelight, but he’d reminded her that he knew her father and asked to be remembered to him. This was a day, God willing, that would go into the town’s archives and would be the high point, the apogee, of Heckley’s romance with royalty, and it happened during his year in office.

  John of the security company parted the ropes that surrounded the ceremonial area and let the party through onto the dais. Ghislaine walked over to where the embroidered curtains covered the plaque, like a child’s theatre set halfway up a wall. Threadneedle shuffled alongside her, running through his speech in his mind.